


Saturday Morning Redux

by rufeepeach



Series: Time Of Day [16]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has to see her one last night, one last time, before the end of their world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Morning Redux

He was standing outside Belle’s house at five in the morning.

He couldn’t knock, or call, or throw a stone like he had once upon a time. He wouldn’t do that to her.

It had been a mistake, Gold realised now, to tell her the truth. To tell her that he loved her, and to mean it, and to reassure her that it wouldn’t change. 

He didn’t know what kind of merry hell he had expected from telling her, in holding back all this time. A car crash, he supposed, or the death of a family member. For her to just vanish off the streets one day, and her body to be ‘found’ by Regina a week later, her heart missing and Gold held responsible. Something dramatic, terrifying, heartbreaking.

This was almost worse. This silence, this stagnation and utter lack of a change.

She had looked half dead, the last time he saw her. Her face had been pale and wan in the dim light of the movie theatre, and although she had touched him, kissed him, fucked him and told him she loved him once again, she had left with tears in her eyes, pain hidden behind a mask he recognised far too well. A mask his brave, beautiful Belle should never have had to wear.

He loved her, and he was too much a coward to accept it, to just live with it and enjoy it, and to take any consequences that came with it. Belle had had to bear those wounds, when it was he who had earned them.

He hadn’t seen her or spoken to her in three weeks. Not since the day she’d straddled him in the cinema and fucked him senseless, and left without another word. She’d not stared him down, called him coward, stood her ground as she had all those years ago. She’d left, with an empty heart and tear-filled eyes, and he hadn’t heard from her since.

He loved his Belle in all her forms, in any world, but this one was broken. And he had a suspicion - more than that, a horrible certainty - that he was the one who had done the breaking.

As if Belle being alive and well, safe and close enough to touch, had not been enough of a gift. He had taken her and shattered her again, and now he was too scared to even look her in the eye, for fear of what he might find there. A good man would go inside and apologise, hold her and kiss her and promise he loved her. A grateful man would at least accept the wonders he had been blessed with, and would let her go free.

But Gold was still, beneath the suit and the calm, Rumpelstiltskin. And Rumpelstiltskin was a monster, and a coward to his core.

It was five in the morning, on the day that the Curse would break. Belle was asleep, and she would awaken her old self, with all his old crimes once more held against him; Gold took one last look at her bedroom window, before turning to walk away.

“Gold?” her voice was clear in the darkness, low and thick with sleep though it was. He’d been caught, it seemed, and he did not have time for this, not tonight, not now of all nights.

He only wanted one last look, one last memory, before Emma Swan defeated the dragon he’d sent her to fight, and the curse broke, and his love loathed him again. He’d only wanted to pretend, to look at her window and imagine he could come inside, but the world could not even grant him that.

“Yes, dearie?” he said, finally, and turned back to look at her.

She was leaning out of her open window, her skin pale and bright in the moonlit darkness. Her hair was loose and messy, hanging down around her face, her loose pyjama top still prettier than the most luxurious of silk nightgowns on any other woman. She was frowning at him, sleepy confusion warring with annoyance, and he didn’t know what she would say, or how heavy an object she would throw at him. If she chose to hurl her television set at his head, he’d daresay he deserved it.

“What’re you doing out there?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s… fuck, it’s five am! Is everything okay?”

“I just…” he shook his head, “Go back to sleep, love.”

She sighed, world weary and too heavy for his bright little Belle, “My dad’s dead to the world, you can come around the back.”

He was a fool: he nodded and watched her close the window, and without a second thought did as she bade. He could no more resist a word from Belle than he could move mountains or halt the tides.

She was waiting for him when he reached the back door, her long t-shirt hanging to mid thigh, her hair hanging down in soft waves around her shoulders. She looked like an angel ready for bed, like the softest, warmest, sweetest thing in the world, but for the hardness in her clear blue eyes.

“It took you long enough,” she said, her voice quiet in the silence of the fresh early morning. Strange that this hour would be silent, when the fullness of day would bring such crescendo. The calm before the storm, he supposed. Everything was cool and still, dew settling and the sun’s rays barely touching the horizon, as if the whole world were holding its breath. Perhaps it was. “What do you want, Gold?”

No more Rum, then. That was a relief, he thought, since he was not looking for his Belle, the Belle she would become at daybreak, his brave maid who he’d been mourning for so long. She was not what he craved, in his coward’s heart, not here and now. 

This early morning, he wanted the girl he’d been able to touch and to taste, who’d let him inside without a second thought, who’d been so free and easy with her affections, and allowed him to forget how wrong it all was. Who would know soon enough how terrible a crime he had committed against her, and be gone as fast as the dew settling on her father’s flowers.

“I just wanted to see you,” he said, and for once no lie tripped off his tongue, no falsehood blackened the air between them. There was nothing left to give her, now, but honesty. It wasn’t as if it could do any good, nor any harm, not anymore.

“It took you three weeks, and now it’s the crack of fucking dawn,” she said, unimpressed. “I’m sorry, but you’re too late now.”

“You’re still talking to me, dearie,” he said, softly, “I’d say there’s time yet.”

She scoffed, rolled her eyes and shuffled her feet. But she didn’t slam the door in his face, nor tell him to leave her forever. He would have, had she asked: it was what he’d always deserved. He’d never, ever been worthy of the open-handed acceptance she had always so readily given him. Silence reigned for a long minute, as they breathed in unison, and her expression gradually softened from its hard anger to something softer, almost regretful.

“Our arrangement is over, then,” she said, and it wasn’t a question, merely the truth. The very idea that they’d be able to go back to the secrets and lies of before after the truth was told had been laughable.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he agreed.

They looked at each other, neither of them sure of what to say. This could be the end, he thought, this could be it. Belle would reawaken, and she’d hate him for before and she’d hate him for now, and he would have lost her twice. Once was bad luck, bad timing, a bad life, not quite his fault. Twice would be careless, he thought, it would seem as if she didn’t wish to keep her.

She was what he cherished, what he’d been missing, what he craved. Anything less than that was an outright lie.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and realised with a start that it was the first time he’d ever said it to her. He’d thought it a thousand times, but never said it aloud, and she deserved so much more than that.

“For what?” she asked, eyes narrowed, head cocked to one side.

“I’m sorry for always loving you and never telling you,” he said, because it would always be true, always, and his reticence had always been his worst sin with her. He loved her truly, and deeply, and he had never said a word. He let her believe that he didn’t care, he hurt her again and again. “And I’m sorry… that I knew you felt the same, and I never told you that, either.”

She nodded, biting her lower lip in that way he knew meant she was holding back tears. It took an awful lot to move his Belle to tears, it always had, but then this was not an ordinary day, and things were going to change. Things had to change.

“Well,” she said, voice thick, “thank you.” 

She took a deep, shuddering breath, her head bowed, and he could see her gathering her courage, or her strength, or perhaps just the ability to turn her back and close the door. She’d have to be the one to do it, he knew: he’d never have the strength to do that to her again. If someone was to leave, it would always have to be Belle.

But she just looked up at him, and there was such hope, such burning and horrible and perfect hope in her eyes, that he could hardly breathe for it.

He chanced it, the last of his bravery, the last of his hope. He’d sent a woman perhaps to her death, and allowed an innocent child to fall to a sleeping curse; he’d tricked and lied his way across three hundred years, and he had little left in him for anything more, anything better. But he chanced this one last moment, and lifted his hand, cupping her cheek with trembling fingers and catching the one tear that spilled from her bright eyes.

She was still for a moment, but just a moment. Then she was leaning into his hand, pressing her skin against his palm, and smiling a tremulous, tentative little smile.

He’d only wanted a look, one last look. 

Instead he received her words, her present not two feet in front of him, her eyes on his, and her smile - small and weak but genuine and true - smiled for him. He was allowed to touch her, to comfort in what little way he could.

But it was Belle - always Belle, always - who leaned forward and kissed him. It was like the first time, the very first time, soft and slow and so wondering, so tender, so unsure. It was as if he’d never ravaged her in alleyways or on tabletops, as if they hadn’t bitten and sucked and devoured. As if they’d always been in love, and this was the beginning of something beautiful, and not the end of a mess he’d never hope to be able to resolve.

He kissed her back, the hand on her cheek straying into the dark, soft mass of her hair, and she made one of those addictive little noises she was so good at, a moan caught at the back of her throat.

They’d spoken, communicated, used their words. This was his reward, what the price of honesty had bought him: the last kiss, he was sure, that Belle would ever permit him.

They broke away before it could get more heated, before they could be clawing and grasping. 

“I’ll tell my dad,” she said, softly, “if you want me too.”

“Tell him what, love?” he asked, breathlessly.

“That Mr Gold came to the door, and asked to court me,” she grinned, wide and beautiful and so bright he might be blinded. “That is, if that’s what you’re doing?”

He deserved the doubt in her eyes: he’d more than earned it. He swallowed, hard, and nodded, smiling back through the pain lancing in his chest. “I’d like that,” he said, “I’d like that a lot.”

She was grinning now, so wide he thought her cheeks might crack and break, her eyes dancing and bright. She jumped up, bridged the space between them effortlessly and threw her arms around him, holding him closer than he had ever allowed them to be, with nothing but open and honest affection in every movement of her little body. He held her as close as he could, wondered if he was crushing her with how hard he was holding her waist, as she buried her face in his neck and laughed, happily, the happiest sound he’d ever heard.

He indulged, for just a moment, in all of her wrapped around all of him, in the warmth and sweetness of the moment, in the love that radiated from her and how it seeped into his bones, warming him through and through.

And then the moment passed, and the sun was threatening to rise on the horizon, and it was time for Rumpelstiltskin to return, to end the moment between Mr Gold and his girl, and for reality to take its dues.

“Hey, hey,” he stroked her back with his hand, soothed her, and then eased her away to press his hand back to her cheek, unable to quite let go completely as he swallowed hard, trying not to show how afraid he was. He was overwhelmed, for just a moment, by grief for a future that is about to be lost, that he shouldn’t even be allowed to glimpse, the world made pure and good that they could have shared. “There’ll be time for that. There’ll be time for everything.”

“What’s wrong with now?” she whispered, biting her lip in a different way, in the way that was teasing and coy, innocent and perfect, beautiful.

“Now, there is something I must do.” He took her hands in his, squeezed as if, for a moment, he’d never have to let go, “If you still… if this is to happen. Us… together,” he breathed, shuddering and heavy, “Then come to my shop tomorrow morning.”

“Why not now?” she asked, smiling, a little of her old spark, her old heat flashing in her eyes, “We’ve been quick before, Rum, why not use that ability?”

She made a convincing case, but it was already five in the morning, and Emma would surely be finished with the dragon soon, and he needed to go, to fetch the magic that would help him to find Bae, to finish the breaking of the Curse once and for all.

Reality and Rumpelstiltskin enveloped Gold, and he could not stay with this Belle who would not exist in a few hours’ time. Their time was gone, and for all that it had hurt, that it had been a broken and tattered thing, he found he would miss it terribly when he walked away.

“I’m afraid, love, that I have something to do. Something urgent,” he took another breath, “Please, just come to the shop tomorrow, if this is still what you want.”

She laughed, light and unbelieving, “Why wouldn’t it be? I love you.”

He nodded, acknowledging that truth, and that was progress at least, “Just… some things appear differently in the harsh light of day,” he sighed, smiled, “indulge an old man, okay?”

She smiled at him, fond and full of humour, for all that she didn’t - couldn’t - understand, “Okay,” she said, “I’ll see you at nine o’clock, Rum.”

He bowed his head once more, and hoped she’d take it for acquiescence, and not an inability to look her in the eye. He couldn’t help but hope against hope that she’d come, that she’d be there anyway, that she would neither hate him nor abandon him, that she’d want the life he offered.

It was a faint hope, foolish and daft, but he walked away from her with a lump in his throat, heading for the abandoned library where Emma Swan would be finishing her father’s work, and he hoped anyway.

—

Rumpelstiltskin was at the wishing well by the time the curse broke. It was eight-fifteen in the morning, appropriate, he thought, considering the broken town clock and its perpetual setting before Emma Swan arrived. He had forty-five minutes until Belle would not be in his shop, and he’d know he’d lost her.

He had forty-five minutes of hope left, and as the purple, magical haze dissipated through the town, he limped back to the shop and savoured every moment of blissful ignorance.

She wasn’t on the front step, but he had ten minutes. In ten minutes he’d start planning his next steps, start working on how to find Bae in a practical sense, resume his work of lifetimes. But for ten minutes, Rumpelstiltskin stood in his shop, surrounded by his dragon’s hoard, as ill-gotten as his power and his love and this whole world, and simply, simply waited.

Nine o’clock came and passed, second by second ticking past, and still Belle was not there.

He knew, five minutes past, that that was that. That he’d lost her, as he’d always deserved to have lost her, and that no matter what miracle had returned her to him once had not worked twice.

Another five minutes, and his back was turned as he started to gather together his potions and his works. He’d need to ensure, of course, that it was now safe to leave town, but no sense in not being prepared when the evidence presented itself. He did not believe for a second he was the only man in town who was more than ready to leave forever.

There was a loud slam of the door, the bell over the top ringing loud enough to break, and he did not return from the back immediately. Belle was half an hour late and counting, and for something like this his love would be on time. She wasn’t coming, and he doubted that Snow White and her family would leave him alone for long. The violence, the decisiveness with which the door was thrown open, was a trait the prince and princess shared, and had passed to their daughter.

“I’m sorry,” he started, as he left the back room and entered the shop, “But if you-“ he stopped, the words dying in his throat as he stopped dead in his tracks.

Belle was stood there, fidgeting with the hem of the nicest skirt she owned, the pairing of the pink skirt and blue blouse somehow so much more soft and feminine than anything she would have worn yesterday. She was herself again, his Belle, and the change was obvious in everything from her sweet little burgundy heels to the curls in her dark hair.

And her eyes, her eyes were older now, clearer and softer, the eyes of a woman who had withstood so much more than the girl she’d been not three hours ago.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she said, her voice calm and steady.

“Belle?” his hand shook, his feet unsteady as he came as close as he dared, still a good five feet between them as he stared at her. How he had even recognised her, blonde and bouncy and insecure, all those months ago in a cheap bar he’d never understand. 

They stood, eye to eye, memory to memory in that dark shop, and Rumpelstiltskin wanted to hurl himself at her feet, beg her forgiveness. He wanted her back in his arms, and her kisses on his skin and in his mouth; he wanted her hands in his hair, her soothing caress telling him that he was forgiven, that everything was alright.

He wanted to smash the world and burn the town and scream and cry and run for his life.

But he just stood, and watched as Belle watched him, in the aftermath of the cursebreak and all that came before, in the ruins of what was, amongst the relics of the world before. 

There was a beginning here, in this silent moment, and an ending as well.


End file.
